


The Lamb

by itsanewproject



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26943835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsanewproject/pseuds/itsanewproject
Summary: "...You are more than qualified to work for this agency.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Perhaps more qualified than me.”Scoffing at his words, she asked, “More qualified? Based on what? At school, I studied history and languages. I’m a research assistant. I used to stock shelves at the bookstore… I apologize but I don’t believe I am qualified to be much of anything, nevertheless a spy.”______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Catherine is a lonely, unassuming, normal girl when she agrees to partake in dismantling a crime lord's empire.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Original Female Character(s), Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben Solo/Original Female Character(s), Ben Solo/Reader, Kylo Ren/Original Female Character(s), Kylo Ren/Reader
Kudos: 3





	The Lamb

**Author's Note:**

> This story and this chapter specifically, has been sitting in my Google drive collecting dust for years. It feels like such a huge achievement finally posting it. Hope people enjoy it!

_ “What had our relationship been? A betrayal of those around us, or the desire of another life?” _

### Chapter One: The Baroque

As she rounded the corner, the cafe coming into view, she felt a sudden urge to check the address one last time. Just as when she searched for it online, it was an unassuming cafe, tucked between a chic baby boutique and family owned tax firm. Stepping aside from the flowing sidewalk traffic, she digs into her bag, feeling for the book she had stuck the letter in. Unfolding the worn letter, her eyes closely scanned over its words for what she hoped was the last time. 

**_I would like for us to meet in order to discuss the matter in more detail. If you would please meet me at the Baroque, the cafe just over the Lambeth bridge, near Walcot Square, this Wednesday at 2:30 pm. I will be dressed in a white shirt, black blazer, seated at the back of the cafe. Save all your questions for our meeting._ **

Letting out a slow breath, she refolded the letter back along its well-worn creases. Knowing that she was just a couple of steps away from their meeting place made her lightheaded, but knowing she was at the right place, put her nerves temporarily at ease. Catherine crossed her arms, securing the hardcover book against her chest, looking both ways before crossing the street. Taking a quick glance through the cafe’s large, crossbar windows, she was taken aback by how busy the cafe was. She had been expecting the cafe, at the middle of the day on a typical work day, to be something close to empty. The nerves began to resurface as she walked in, instantly welcomed by that distinct scent of coffee. Bringing the book closer to her chest, she made her way towards the back of the cafe. 

Earning some glares from customers, Catherine wished she could offer individual apologies for her long, expecting, and suspicious looks. She could feel her cheeks start to burn in embarrassment as she reached the back of the unexpectedly large cafe, hoping she had somehow missed the man in his white shirt and black blazer. Glancing around one last time, she self-consciously tucked stubborn flyaways behind her ear, moving up towards the front of the cafe with the sole intention of not looking like a fool. Spotting a small, empty table for two she made as if that was where she was supposed to be. 

Thankfully she had her book with her. She figured she could spend a half an hour reading, maybe order something small before venturing back to her office, never to think about the letter or the man ever again. 

Mid-stride she felt a warm hand firmly clasp itself around her wrist. Instinctively she jerked her hand back, whipping around to scold whoever grabbed her. 

It was a man, whose sharp blue eyes sparkled with recognition as they met her own. 

“Catherine. Please. Have a seat.”

Holding his gaze for a moment, she took a few, small steps behind herself to take a seat across from the handsome man. The hand that grabbed her, went to join the other, curling around his steaming mug of coffee. A slight smile graced his face, watching her settle in. 

“I would have kept my word and worn my white Oxford and blazer but I could not take the chance of the police greeting me here instead of you.” 

Listening to him, her brows frowned in confusion. Staying silent, she tugged at the collar of her gray sweater, her nails scratching anxiously at the newly exposed skin. 

“Good afternoon.” a waitress greets, approaching their table. “What could I get for you today?”

“Oh!” Catherine starts, hastily grabbing for the laminated menu that had been waiting for her. Scanning it fruitlessly, the cafe’s menu might as well have been a blank sheet of paper. 

“Their cappuccinos are excellent.” 

The waitress voiced her agreeance but Catherine was never one for coffee or coffee flavored drinks. Shaking her head, she handed the menu to the waitress asking for water with lemon. 

“A tea…?” The waitress began confused as to what to scribble on her notepad. 

“No.” she answered with more attitude than she intended. She did not want to be rude. The waitress was just doing her job after all. But Catherine was on edge. The constant state of utter confusion and uncontrollable nerves gave way to irritability. She was here in the dimly lit, unassuming large cafe to figure out why the blue-eyed, shockingly handsome man asked her here, sent her that letter. Not to fuss over a cafe’s menu. 

“Okay. One water with lemon. Not a problem.” Tucking her notepad behind herself, she took Catherine's menu without any further words and left the table to serve another. 

“Just water?” 

“Sorry… Not in the mood for anything else.” 

“If I would have known I would have chosen another place. A place where you would feel much more comfortable.” 

She went to respond but she stopped herself. Ultimately it did not matter to her whether or not she was comfortable. What mattered to her was figuring out the purpose of their meeting. Although he seemed talkative he did not seem to be eager to get to explaining the contents or context of the letter any further. Shifting in her seat she boldly took the first step by asking him his name. She had realized after her fourth time reading through his letter, his name was missing. 

“Jax. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

The waitress returned, neatly placing a glass of water and a small dish of finely arranged lemon slices. 

“Would there be anything else?”

“No. That will be all. Thank you.” Jax answered before Catherine could. Sliding a straw over to her, Jax’s eyes fall upon her book. “Judas?” he jerks his chin towards the book. “Interesting choice.” 

“Just some reading I’m doing during my break.” She felt uneasy, oversharing with a man she hardly knew and so slowly pushed the book further away from her. 

“Anything I’ll be hearing about soon?” 

“Oh no. Just some personal reading.” Clearing her throat, she broke the paper covering of her straw. “Something to keep me busy.” 

He hummed, watching her swirl the ice with her straw, squeeze the juice from the lemon slices. He first spoke of the weather, his commute over to the cafe, and that all led to him telling her of his intentions of purchasing a car. Although a car would be nice, because of the parking situation in his neighborhood he quite dramatically referred to as “horrendous”, he was considering investing in a scooter. 

The more he rambled on, the less impressed she was. There was nothing about his demeanor that convinced her he was what he was claiming to be. Did a member of MI-6 really invite her to a cafe, an hour outside where she lived, just to chat about his cat allergy? She had to keep crossing and uncrossing her legs, stretching her lower back to get rid of the discomfort of sitting there for what felt like a lifetime. Observation skills must have been lacking because he failed to pick up on her irritation and impatience eagerly ordering another coffee. 

Yet despite potentially lying about who he was and inability to recognize social cues, Jax was friendly and had a certain charm that was without a double compounded by his good looks. By the fine lines around his eyes and stretched long across his broad forehead, she would assume that he was well into his thirties. Whenever he laughed, his face lit up, revealing a boyish gline in his eyes, and what she found to be an impossibly endearing overbite. He, if she had never received that letter, wsa just another guy in London. Thus her mind wandered, as it had a habit of doing, envisioning meeting Jax under radically different circumstances. What if she had been sitting across from Jax, a friend of a friend or a co-worker, rather than Jax, the possible spy? She was beginning to settle into her alternative universe when he abruptly excused himself from the table. 

“I’ll be back in a moment.” He muttered under his breath, reaching into his pocket, leaving her all alone at the table. Once again readjusting her body in the seat, twisting right then left, she yawned. Letting her shoulders slump forward, looking around the cafe for a clock, refusing to dig into her bag for her phone. Not spotting a single clock, she breathed in deeply, knowing it was time to make up an excuse to leave. She was wondering if he would believe that she had to hurry home to feed her non-existent dog, when the couple seated behind her, pushed their seats back. She watched them over her shoulder, file out of the cafe. Turning back she caught the gaze of a middle-aged woman. The woman regarded her for a bit longer than necessary, before turning away from her. 

Catherine paused, pondering if she knew the woman. Reaching back into her bag, her hand felt for her phone among the variety of items. Her keys, mints, an uncapped pen, then finally her phone, she tightened her hold on it as if not to lose it again in the deep, dark depths of her bag. But as she did, Jax reappeared. There was a guy, perhaps her age, who as he stood, slid on his backpack, bumped into Jax. They exchanged apologies and pleasant smiles before the student continued his route out of the cafe. 

As Jax approached, he offered her a small smile. She shamefully dropped the phone back into her bag. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was rude. Reluctantly returning his smile, she mentally and physically prepared herself for another round of mindless babble. 

“You must be dying to know why I sent you that letter.” 

She felt her heart skip a beat.

Suddenly talking about what was playing in the theaters did not sound so dull after all. 

“First and foremost, I should apologize for such a vague letter. I imagine it must have been quite the surprise.” 

The research was supposed to have been submitted in the evening for her professor to review the following morning. However, due to no fault but her own, the research was embarrassingly incomplete and her professor left with no research to review, consider, and hopefully approve. Her Tuesday afternoon was then entirely devoted to cataloging sources and creating proper citations. She was like a machine despite missing breakfast and lunch, fueled by the fact that failure was not an option neither was disappointing her professor. The shared office’s door was locked and adorned with a handwritten post-it note that read, “Sorry, not in!- Catherine.” 

She remembers how hard her fist came down on the wooden desk, jaw tightening, as she went to open the door for someone who had no respect for her handwritten note. Swinging the door open, she was met with a short man wearing a black single-breasted overcoat and a turtleneck that accentuated his sharp jaw. He handed her what she now knows to be Jax’s letter, without a word, before leaving her dumbfounded in the doorway. 

“I trust you understand that I am a member of MI-6.” Nodding her head, he continued. “Good. Well, the reason why I asked you here today is to simply have a little chat.” 

She went to speak but he held up a hand, urging her to let him finish. 

“After you graduated from Oxford, the agency planned to approach you with a job opportunity. But because of one thing and another, other leads became a priority and the agency never reached out. So the letter, _this_ meeting was only a matter of time.” 

She blinks, shaking her head in disbelief. She glanced around the now nearly empty cafe as if to see if anyone was hearing this. She didn’t believe what was happening was real. Either an odd dream or perhaps an elaborate prank, but in no way could it be reality. 

“The agency could use people like you. You are bright, loyal, knowledgeable, hardworking, and resourceful. You are more than qualified to work for this agency.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Perhaps more qualified than me.” 

Scoffing at his words, she asked, “More qualified? Based on what? At school, I studied history and languages. I’m a research assistant. I used to stock shelves at the bookstore… I apologize but I don’t believe I am qualified to be much of anything, nevertheless a spy.” 

Narrowing his eyes, somewhat entertained, he asked, “Do you remember a guy by the name of Vincent Wells? You both studied history at Oxford with Professor Walhouse. Graduated together too, if I am remembering correctly.” He paused, staring at her.“Well, Mr. Wells, three months after graduation day, was sent to work in Pakistan. He was quite impressive. His extensive knowledge about the various tribes within Pakistan, their customs, and how they communicate helped the agency, as well as the British military still to this day, navigate through the country. He helped us greatly and we are eternally thankful for his service. Now, Catherine, the agency is asking for your skills and expertise to assist them.” 

Without moving a muscle, Catherine tried to wrap her mind around his words. Inhaling deeply, she had to look away from him as his eyes stayed glued to her. She didn’t know what he wanted her to say. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing at the moment.” Tilting his head to the right he began to speak as if he was reciting lines that have been studied and practiced. “The agency has placed me in charge of a mission for a select few of its agents. We are tracking pieces of art that have been stolen some time ago. The agency has, at least what I believe, a pretty solid lead on one piece in particular. A Caravaggio.” 

She didn’t need any other information. She knew which painting he was referring to. It made her immediately think of home and she felt her chest tighten. She felt vulnerable, her secret exposed, as if he was using her weakness against her. Going on the defensive, crossing her arms over her chest she said, “What does a stolen painting have to do with me?”

Scratching at the patch of skin atop his eyebrow he continued to speak robotically. “To put it simply, what the agency wanted from you is an assessment of the situation. Your primary responsibility would be gathering information. Talking with locals, museum officials, art dealers, owners of private collections to see if they have seen or heard anything suspicious. As of right now, all under the guise of an academic seeking information for her research for her very prestigious university. Then hopefully after a fruitful few months, you Catherine, will basically make the agency’s headquarters your new home and me your best friend. I could not emphasize enough how greatly you would be helping the agency. Sharing your findings and helping us build a proper, legitimate front and action plan to make this mission a success.”

Once he finished a heavy silence fell over them, one that she knew was her responsibility to fill. It was getting increasingly difficult to remain present. Her thoughts jumbled, an untamed mess. The endless possibilities of what could happen to her, the dark and greedy side of the art world which she had only heard stories of, and the very simple understanding that the man, the stranger, sitting across from her knew everything about her. It was impossible to think nonetheless, speak. 

“Me?” She placed her hand along her clavicle. “You want me to go float around, asking people if they have seen a stolen painting? Do you think people are really going to tell _me,_ a student, where the painting is simply because I’m doing research? Why does it have to be me? Doesn’t your agency have professional, trained spies to do this?” 

Jax was completely stoic as she hurled her questions at him. 

“I don’t know who you think I am. I’m a nobody. I’m no Wells, or a Henry Jones, or... James Bond. I’m just… here doing my research, helping my professor with a _real_ upcoming project. That’s it.”

“There is no need to doubt yourself. The agency is seeking _you_ out. We need your knowledge concerning the region we are tracking. You know the languages, familiar with the dialects, customs, history, and art. Trust me when I say that those aspects are key to navigating these kinds of operations. You’ll be with a team, protected of course, and you will gather information and report back directly to me. That is all we are asking of you at the moment.” 

“I-” she started before stopping herself huffing out a breath. She had so much she wanted to say but had no idea how she could even begin to verbalize her hurricane of thoughts. 

“Why if the agency knows where the piece is, reac-”

“We don’t.” he cut her off. “More than ever before we have been able to, through civilian tips and field agents’ input, to narrow down the geographic scope of the search. All we know for sure is the man who we believe is directly attached to the dealings and movement of major stolen pieces of art.” He stopped himself to again scratch at that patch of skin above his eyebrow. “Think of it this way. This guy is not going to be stuffing an infamous, stolen, centuries-old painting in a suitcase and shipping it to some random person.”

They fell back into their routined silence. Jax’s long finger traced the curved handle of his coffee cup as Catherine fixed her eyes upon the multi-colored tiled floor. 

“Wait.” she started, breaking out of her scrambled thoughts. “Is your agency after the painting or this man who knows where the painting is?”

If she had not been watching him so carefully, she would have missed his reaction. It was a disdainful grimace that told her she had asked the wrong question. But Jax gathered himself, leaning forward to rest his elbows atop the table. 

“I would rather not get into any specifics. Not until I have confirmation that you’ll be taking part in this mission. For now, I will tell you, the man we are talking about has been heavily involved in so much illegal activity, domestic as well as international, that things have become a bit murky. It is no secret that this guy has been on the agency’s radar for years. If it is a 17th-century painting that places him behind bars, then so be it.” 

Her jaw nearly dropped, listening to him share highly sensitive information. “Listen Jax… I don’t know how to…” Catherine looked at him, nearly pleading with him to understand the position he has put her in. It was a thrill and an ego boost but there was no way that she was cut out to be involved with such an esteemed agency, going on, _informing, directing_ a mission. 

“I am… I am very honored that you and your agency sought me out…” she trailed off as she watched Jax press his lips together, nostrils flaring. Moving her hands off the table, she placed them in her lap. 

“Catherine, please. I do not need nor do I want you to make a decision right this second. I understand it is a lot of information to digest. On my end, there is an extremely strict vision for this mission. Saying that, I am willing to give you a few days to think this over.” He sat back a bit so he could reach into a pocket on the inside of his jacket. Extending his arm, offering her a card, Catherine reluctantly took it. 

“I will give you four days, starting tomorrow. Call me once you’ve come to a decision.” he paused, regarding her for a moment. “And even if you decline, still, call me.” 

Nodding, blindly sticking his card between the pages of her book, along with his letter. 

“Make sure you don’t lose that card.” 

“I won’t.” she promised, watching him finish off what she could only assume was very cold coffee. When he placed his empty mug back onto the table he revealed a satisfied expression on his handsome face. 

“Hate to cut this date short but I must be getting back to the office.” 

Overjoyed, she shot up from her seat gathering her things. He led the way out of the cafe and as she watched him and his large, lean frame move in front of her a question popped into her head. Her teeth softly bit down on her bottom lip, as she hesitated, wondering how she could get his attention.

“Um Jax? This might sound ridiculous but could I possibly talk to someone about this?”

He looked taken aback by her question as he held the door open for her to step out into the chilly afternoon. Chuckling to himself, he made a show of considering her question. He hummed, tilting his head from one side to another. If she was not overwhelmed she would have smiled or maybe even laughed at his attempt at humor. 

“Is there someone in particular, you had in mind?”

She felt it was fair to say that all this information was too much for a single person to process. Just by pure instinct, she deemed it necessary to talk to someone and attempt to make some sense of this offer. Yet as she stands inches away from him, she feels embarrassed as she did not have a person in mind. In an effort to save face, she answered with a small shrug, “A friend…”

“I understand it is a lot to consider but we are dealing with highly classified information here. If you prefer to talk to someone to help reach your decision, I could arrange for you to use the resources at the agency’s headquarters. You have my card and although I am obviously extremely biased I could be…” he trailed off, giving himself a moment to find a suitable word. “Let’s say moral support. Okay?”

For the first time that afternoon, Catherine and Jax were on the same page. 

The slightest of frowns formed on his face as he inched closer to her. Catherine had failed to notice how tall the MI-6 agent was until he nearly bent in half to place a kiss on her cheek. 

“I’ll be waiting for your call.”


End file.
